So, both busy with bitter thoughts, we walked in silence to Lantrig.
The evening meal was no better.

My food choked me, and after a struggle I was forced to let it lie almost untouched.

But when the fire was stirred, the candles lit, and I drew my footstool as usual to her feet by the hearth, the old room looked so warm and cosy that my pale fears began to vanish in its genial glow.

I had possessed myself of the "Pilgrim's Progress," and the volume, a dumpy octavo, lay on my knee.

As I read the story of Christian and Apollyon to its end, a new courage fought in me with my morning fears.
"In this combat no man can imagine, unless he has seen and heard as I did, what yelling and hideous roaring Apollyon made all the time of the fight: he _spake like a dragon_; and, on the other side, what sighs and groans burst from Christian's heart.